talk of them. A man would not undertake a voyage by sea, for the bare pleasure of gratifying his sight, if he was never to speak of it, and had no hope of conversing about it afterward.

We do not much care about being esteemed in towns which we only pass through, but when we are going to stay in them any time, we are solicitous for it. How much time will this take? A time proportioned to our vain and transitory stay?

A little thing comforts us, because a little thing afflicts us.

We

We are never satisfied with the present. anticipate the future as too slow, and, as it were, to hasten it on; or we recall the time past, as too swift, in order to stop its flight. We are so imprudent, that we ramble through those times with which we have nothing to do, and utterly forget that which alone is our own; and so vain, that we dream of those which are not, and let the only one which subsists, pass away without reflection. This is because the present generally gives us some uneasiness; we hide it from our sight, because it distresses us; and if it happen to be agreeable, we are distressed to see it so quickly pass away. We endeavour to retain it by means of the future, and think about disposing of things which are not in our power, for a time to which we have no assurance whatever that we shall ever arrive.

Let a man examine his own thoughts, and he will always find them employed about the time past or to come. We scarcely bestow a thought upon the present; or, if we do, it is only that we may borrow light from it to dispose of the future. The present is never in our view; the past and the present are our means, but the future alone is our object. Thus we never live, but we hope to live; and being thus ever preparing to be happy, it is most certain we never shall be so, if we do not aspire to some other felicity than can ever be enjoyed in this life.

Our imagination so magnifies the time present, by reflecting perpetually on it, and so weakens the idea of eternity, by scarcely ever thinking about it, that we make a nothing of eternity, and an eternity of nothing. And the root of all this is so predominant in us, that all our reason is too weak to surmount it.

Cromwell was going to desolate all Christendom; the royal family would have been ruined, and his own have been established in power, but for a little particle of gravel which fell down into his ureter. Rome itself began to tremble under him; but this petty grain, which had been nothing anywhere else, coming into this part, occasioned his death, the fall of his family, and the restoration of the king.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE WEAKNESS OF MAN.

THERE is nothing which astonishes me so much as to see that all the world are not astonished at their own weakness. Men act seriously, and every one follows his own course of life, not because it is really good to follow it, or that it is the fashion, but as if each man knew exactly what is reason and justice.

We find ourselves deceived every moment, and by a pleasant kind of humility we think the fault is in ourselves, and not in the art which we always boast of understanding. It is fit there should be many such persons in the world, to shew that man is capable of the most extravagant opinions, since he is capable of believing that the weakness he feels is not natural and inevitable, but that on the contrary he is naturally wise.

The weakness of human reason appears much more in those who are ignorant of it, than in those who are acquainted with it.

While we are too young we judge amiss, and when we are too old we do the same. If we think too little of a thing, or too much, we turn giddy, and are unable to discover the truth.

If a man views his own work just after he has finished it, he is quite prepossessed in its favour; but

if he waits too long, he scarcely enters into the subject of it.

There is but one precise point from which we can take a just view of a picture; the rest are too near or too distant, too high or too low. Perspective assigns this point in the art of painting; but who is able to determine it in truth and in morals?

That mistress of mistake, which we call fancy or opinion, is so much the greater cheat, because she does not cheat constantly. She would be an infallible rule of truth, if she were an infallible rule of falsehood. But as she most commonly deceives us, she gives us no mark by which we can go, but stamps truth and falsehood with the same impression.

This proud princess, the enemy of reason, who is so well pleased to controul and rule over her, in order to shew how much she can govern every thing, has established in man a second nature. She has her happy and her unhappy, her sick and her healthy, her rich and her poor, her fools and her wise; and nothing is so vexatious as to see that she fills her votaries with more complete and entire satisfaction than reason can do. The imaginary wise always feeling quite a different degree of pleasure to any which the truly wise can reasonably enjoy. They look on other people with authority; they dispute with assurance and confidence, while the others feel modest and diffident. And their gaiety of countenance often gives them an advantage in the opinion of their hearers; so much favour do the imaginary wise find with judges of their own description. Opinion cannot, indeed, make fools wise, but it makes them contented, and so maintains the contest with reason, which can only render its friends miserable. The one covers them with glory, the other with shame.

What dispenses reputation, what procures respect and veneration to persons, to books, to the great, but

opinion? How insufficient are all riches in the world without its concurrence?

Opinion disposes of every thing. It denominates beauty, justice, and happiness, which are all the world can afford. I should be very glad to see an Italian book, of which I know only the title, which is itself worth a multitude of books. Della Opinione Regina del Mundo: Of Opinion, the Queen of the World. I subscribe to this without knowing it, if there be no evil cloaked under this title.

There is scarcely any thing, just or unjust, which does not change its nature, on changing its climate. Three degrees of elevation in the pole overturn all jurisprudence. The meridian determines a truth, and a few years a right to possession. Fundamental laws vary. Right has its dates. Fine justice this, which is bounded by a river or a mountain; truth on one side of the Pyrenees is falsehood on the other.

The art of overturning states is to discredit established customs, by looking into their origin, and pointing out that it was defective in authority and justice. We ought, say you, to go back to the primitive and fundamental laws of the state, which unjust customs have abolished. This is the sure way to overset every thing. Nothing is right in such a balance; yet the multitude lend an ear to such discourses; they shake off the yoke as soon as ever they begin to feel it, and the great take advantage of it, to ruin both them and these curious examiners into established customs. But by a contrary fault, men think they may do with justice whatever is not without example.

Set the greatest philosopher in the world upon a plank, only a little broader than the space he usually takes up in walking, if there be a precipice underneath, although his reason may convince him he is safe, his imagination will get the better of him. Some could not even bear the thought, without